


what's my name, what's my station

by asphodelgrimoire



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: A little angst, Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, M/M, Power Dynamics, a lot of feelings, as in george is legally an authoritarian figure buT HE'S WHIPPED, details that may or may not be historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphodelgrimoire/pseuds/asphodelgrimoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He believes in liberty, and has a fine reason to hate the British,” Knox answers. “General, he volunteered to fight for our nation without pay. His lack of experience doesn’t diminish his enthusiasm or willingness to learn,” he pauses. “I suggest you make yourself familiar with him. If anyone could kindle vehemence in him, I reckon it’d be you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's my name, what's my station

**Author's Note:**

> so this talks about a lot of historical events, but sometimes the details are blurry (meaning that there's no documentation,) and therefore i have to make shit up. the events and sequence are correct, but i cannot promise pin-point accuracy, so i apologize for that.
> 
> title is from fleet foxes' "helplessness blues"
> 
> feel free to point out glaring errors, and please know that i appreciate comments and kudos very much!

“There he is, General,” he hears Henry say, and looks to where his friend is pointing across the room. A lean man- no, a _boy_ \- is conversing with the host, his mouth moving jaggedly. The boy’s face twists occasionally, uncharacteristic for how soft he appears, at the other man’s responses, but his expression quickly evens out, presumably after being given an explanation.

                “The Marquis de Lafayette?” George asks, trying not to make his shock clear. Henry nods. “He cannot be over twenty years of age. Why did he come?” His eyes narrow slightly, and he lowers his voice. “What salary did he request?”

                “He believes in liberty, and has a fine reason to hate the British,” Knox answers. “General, he volunteered to fight for our nation without pay. His lack of experience doesn’t diminish his enthusiasm or willingness to learn,” he pauses. “I suggest you make yourself familiar with him. If anyone could kindle vehemence in him, I reckon it’d be you.”

                Henry doesn’t allow him a response, pointedly making himself scarce by laughing about something or another with the lady of the household. “There he is,” George mutters with a sigh, and looks back at the boy. He is only mildly surprised to find that the young Marquis had been watching him. He can see the boy flush before jerking his head back to scrutinize the floor. He smiles and distantly wonders what hyperboles and extraordinary half-truths the Marquis has heard of him, if any.

The memory of Franklin’s recommendation letter and the fact that he’d volunteered for this urges George to amble over to where he is. Seeing the general walk up, the host, whose name he regrettably does not remember, smiles tersely and steps away. He obviously knows who Washington is there for, and it’s not him. The Marquis avoids eye contact, choosing instead to look at his own boots. Whether he is doing this out of respect or trepidation, George does not know.

“Marquis, your humble servant, sir,” he speaks faintly, as though the other man would shatter. He doesn’t waver or let himself appear timid, but his voice is lowered substantially from its usual grave inflection. George gives him a small smile, even if the boy isn’t looking at him. “I am glad to finally meet you. Your selfless devotion to our cause is admirable.”

After a small pause, possibly as he processed the English, he smiles and sharply nods. “Yours, sir. It’s an immense honor to make your acquaintance. And-“ The Marquis looks bashful as he speaks. “-if it pleases you, Lafayette is what I primarily go by.” His accent is strong, but not incomprehensible. Like everything else about him, it seems soft when juxtaposed with the other officers France has sent over.

George nods back and makes an effort to avert his gaze enough that Lafayette doesn’t notice him staring- how can he not? It is not lascivious, but the boy stands out, delicate and lissome, among robust war-hardened men and petite powdered women. Every person around him seems rigid and bold in comparison, and they notice it too, like spectators at an art exhibit understandably fascinated by his watercolor eyes and hazy lines.

It is clear that he does not belong, to everyone except possibly himself.

“Of course,” George says instead. “Would it be agreeable for you to sit next to me at the table? Dinner will be served soon, and I’d like to continue this exchange.”

Lafayette’s eyes reveal his shock, but just as quickly as the emotion comes, it passes. He beams. “It would be a privilege, sir.” He struggles noticeably on that last word, seeming to stutter, but George is somehow filled with pride at the boy’s triumph over yet another English word.

He finds himself aching to hear Lafayette’s soothingly saccharine voice again, and begins interrogating him, not unkindly, as soon as they have sat down.

(If George glowers at the other guests for asking him rudimentary questions while he’s so preoccupied, no one says a thing about it.)

 

-

 

The retreat was a success.

Needless to say, the battle wasn’t.

Howe was too familiar with the land, and had out-planned the Continental Army by a long shot. The Battle of Brandywine hit like a maelstrom when American forces were pushed back by a swarm of British and Hessian soldiers. They hit from the sides, knowing that focus was almost always on the head of the battalion. He should have seen it coming. He didn’t. Although not disastrous, it shook the army’s fragile foundation, and the soldiers’ morale. Every loss was a hurricane, and he was the one who led the search and rescue, rebuilt houses from the ground up, counted the dead- lost battles meant reconstruction. If he had only checked the right flank- if he had only thought harder, the battle would have been won.

George can’t find exact casualty reports, but the main consensus is around 1300 in total, the wounded being twice the dead, and the captured being one-third of the wounded. The entire cavalry could have been obliterated, if it weren’t for General Sullivan and his division. He considers bringing Sullivan in, praising him, telling him to keep going as he was. Possibly even ask for his advice on his strategy plans, but George’s wounded pride was already festering, and he knows that he isn’t good at hiding his bitterness. As it turns out, he didn’t have to consider it at all.

“Sir general!” The man doesn’t even knock, and suddenly an abashed John Sullivan is saluting him and hurrying over to speak to him privately. George registers the door close, but can’t help raising an eyebrow. “I am your obedient and humble servant, sir. I must tell you, the Marquis de Lafayette was injured in battle.”

He stands up.

“He didn’t realize it had happened until after our retreat, which he aided in immensely,” that part seems to be an afterthought, but not a lie. “-and is in the hospital currently. It is not infected, and he is expected to make a quick recovery.”

“Which hospital?” George is already pulling on his coat, only listening so he knows where to go. He vaguely realizes how insolent he’s being to his guest, but Sullivan wasn’t even invited in, and the matter is more than slightly urgent. He’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t trepid, despite the reassurance.

“Bethlehem,” If Sullivan is bothered by his general’s behavior, he doesn’t let it be known.

“I can only thank you for entertaining my urgency, and for orchestrating a coordinated retreat. Thank you, truly,” George remembers his manners briefly, nodding his acknowledgement at a man who sincerely deserves it, before hurrying out of his headquarters, John Sullivan in tow so as not to be left behind.

He mounts his horse, and the other man waves him off. Bethlehem is farther away than he would have expected, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to see Lafayette, to selfishly assure himself that the boy won’t be taken from him so soon. It’s almost pitiful, how quickly George has attached himself to Lafayette, but he has no reason to question their affinity, and his friend has grown to be everything to him.

By the time he gets to Bethlehem, it is dusk, and Doctor Shippen is waiting outside the hospital tent. George doubts the man was waiting for him specifically, but when he ties his horse and walks up (anxiously, with more haste than necessary) Shippen gives him an indiscernible smile. 

“Lafayette is expecting you,” he says, sounding peculiarly self-satisfied, and George almost has the mind to be indignant, but the doctor starts again in a much more pleasant tone. “The major general is in stable condition, sir. The hit was to his leg, but there doesn’t appear to be an infection. His recovery is to be swift.” As he speaks, Shippen is leading him into the tent. They don’t stop at the first set of occupied cots, or the second. The doctor senses his worry, and states, “He has a separate tent.”

After the third set of cots, this one with a few vacancies, they come to another pair of canvas flaps. The doctor lifts up one flap for George to get by, but doesn’t make a move to follow him. In fact, he drops the covering and walks away from Lafayette’s tent completely. It makes sense; he’s busy. But George can’t think of anything except for the gentle eyes in the cot in front of him. The blanket is discarded, thrown off the bed, and he can see a sanguine spot peering through the off-white dressing on Lafayette’s calf.

Christ, even after getting shot in the leg, he still looks entirely unsullied. He looks a bit pale, but it’s probably from the pain more than anything. George isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or not. On one hand, the boy isn’t dying any time soon. On the other, he’s moving to sit on the edge of the bed to be closer to the general, and when George hears him make a little pained ‘ah,’ he isn’t sure he’s ever felt so desperate to protect someone. He’s stooping beside the bed within mere seconds, moving on instinct, stroking Lafayette’s hair with as much unethical tenderness as he can manage without metaphorically or literally shooting himself in the foot.

The boy makes a muted sound, somewhere between a wince and a sob, and presses the feverish skin of his cheek into George’s hand without a single moment of delay. It’s audacious, flagrant even, but he can’t bring himself to stop Lafayette from covering the hand splayed on his face with his own trembling one.

“I… I did not think moving would burn so severely. I’m getting better, but not as quickly as I would have hoped,” He breathes harshly, and George cannot help but bitterly determine that such a soft boy should not- _never_ \- be exhaling so jaggedly. Lafayette’s words sound like an apology, which twists the knot in his stomach even further.

“It’s alright, shh,” The boy’s breathing evens out at George placing the vacant hand on his thigh, while he is only hoping his touch will soothe the tremors and twinges. “I’m here.” Lafayette tightens his fingers around the other man’s hand, pulling it away from his cheek and keeping it locked in his. He rests his head on George’s shoulder slowly, like he’s afraid the general is going to scold him, but no such scolding occurs. His eyes are pressed into the padded shoulder of the coat, and he nuzzles George’s collarbone. It would be rather endearing if it weren’t for Lafayette shuddering at the pain every so often, but he supposes he should just be grateful for the boy’s hand in his.

They stay like that for a while, but when they finally part, George notices Lafayette looking at him with an intensity that very nearly makes him uncomfortable.

He rides back to the headquarters with a yearning he can’t quite place.

 

-

 

They construct a camp at Valley Forge. Although his official headquarters are the home of Mrs. Potts-Hewes, George spends most of his time in a tent at the encampment. He tells himself that he’s doing it to lead by example, but the truth is that he wants to be closer to his troops, and that he’s a coward for comfortably swaddling himself in a heavy woolen blanket while the soldiers he coaxed into fighting are freezing to death. He thinks about this too often. Some nights he woke up sick with guilt and walked into the snow, feet bare, and sat against a tree, wallowing in his shame until dawn.

He knows it doesn’t make any difference and stops doing it completely after remembering that he’s no good to anyone if his toes fall off.

On this night, he asks an aide-de-camp to fetch Lafayette, primarily because George is lonely, and secondly because he’s afraid the boy will fall asleep and never wake up, that he’ll become prey to the cruel winter. Nightmares of that variety have gotten all too frequent for the general.

A pervading thought periodically tells him, ‘Lafayette is _your_ boy,’ but every instance it comes up he quashes the thought before anyone notices how disgusted George is with himself for even entertaining it for a second. It isn’t easy.

“General? You wanted to see me, sir?” Before even 2 minutes have passed, Lafayette is at his desk, as lithe and eager and pure and faultless as he always is, and George feels an ache in his chest.

“If it pleases you, I’d like some company.”

That isn’t the answer Lafayette expects, as his face twists in confusion for a moment, but he quickly collects himself and grins, sitting on the extra chair next to George’s. “ _D’accord_. I could never say no to you, George.”

The general swallows thickly. “I am continually grateful for your presence. Thank you.”

Lafayette waves him off, seeming even younger than George thought was possible. “Think nothing of it. We are friends, no? Now, tell me what is on your mind,” he says, clearly eager to listen to what the other man has to say.

“Lafayette, I…” _I feel an unbearable ache in every place you’re present._ “I have been having night terrors recently, with the poor condition the soldiers are in. A dismal future is beyond doubt. Most of them are-” _Most of them are about your beautiful self, dying slowly, eyes frozen shut. Most of them are my fault, and I’m forced to sit and watch you die, unable to do anything but weep._ “-about you, and I sometimes fear that the situations within them are not unlikely.”

The boy frowns at him, not in anger, but he is at least mildly disturbed to learn this, as he should be. He stands up, squeezing between George in his chair and the desk, the latter of which he sits on to look directly at George. His eyes are still bright, innocent like a lamb’s. “ _Mon cher général_ , this army will pull through. You and I will be safe. You know that I’ve been buying my men better garments, and that does include me,” he says, picking at a button on his coat. “The winter will not get to me, George. You have my word.” Lafayette takes the other man’s hands in his cold gloved ones.

“I have your word?” George pulls the boy’s hands closer to where he is in the chair and kisses his knuckles gently. He sees Lafayette smile- if it could even be called that. A voracious leer would be a more accurate title.

He may have lamb’s eyes, but his smile is that of a wolf. “Always,” he says gently, shifting forward on the desk and getting distressingly comfortable in his spot there. “Enough of that. Is there anything else you’d like to confer with me about, sir?”

It’s a challenge if George has ever seen one. A challenge he fully intends to take. It’s not a decision he’d usually make, but he’s ill with pining and it aches more than any loss he’s ever faced.

“Yes,” He takes a long breath and stands up from the chair. He instantly wishes to lean against something, but being that the only place he’d have to put his hands is on either side of Lafayette’s hips, he opts to stand alone. “You- you know I value our relationship highly… And any transgressive feelings I may have, should not come to change that.  If you-“ He is interrupted by a delicate hand stroking his cheek.

“ _Il n’y a rien à dire,_ ” Lafayette whispers, looking up at him reverently. His legs splay further, and George unthinkingly falls to his knees with a shuddering exhale. It’s too much. The hand on his cheek leaves, and the boy is now looking _down_ at _him_. His eyes only widen for a second before his expression shifts to something more pensive, something ambiguous. George can’t even acknowledge the smarting pang in his knees at the impact when those sweet, darling eyes are boring into his.

“This is shameful,” the general mutters to himself more than anybody, yet neither man moves. As a matter of fact- George leans forward until the boy’s knees are caressing his shoulders and raises his arms hesitantly, weaving under Lafayette’s thighs to rest on his hips when he meets no protest.

Whether it’s more disgraceful that he’s a military leader in the most submissive position he could possibly fathom, or that they are both men, he doesn’t know. He also doesn’t particularly care, and doesn’t think he could bring himself to when Lafayette is pushing his hips forward with a practiced ease that unsettles him in every way.

“ _George,_ ” His voice has an urgency to it that his hips don’t, but he’s still looking down at with an astonishing amount of awe and devotion, especially when George is the one who feels as though he’s genuflecting at an altar. It’s unjust, truly, for any one person to be so ethereal.

“Anything,” he whispers, surely sounding just as devastated as he feels. “I’ll give you anything.”

Lafayette lets out a harsh breath and tightens his grip on George’s right shoulder. “ _Je ne sais pas ce que je veux que vous-_ I- I’ve been waiting for this _sans cesse_ and now I don’t-“ He cuts himself off with a quiet laugh, looking down at George like he has hung the moon and stars just for him. His smile is absolutely _ruining._ He shakes his head as if banishing the thought, cups the general’s face in his hands and bows gracefully with the purpose of kissing George in the utmost candid manner. He has to strain up to continue the kiss, and it appears that Lafayette is practically folding himself in half for the same reason, but he can’t think of any one thing he’d rather be doing. It’s very much like the boy himself, George thinks, sweet and overwhelming and languid and perfect. He doesn’t understand a lick of the French spoken, but as Lafayette doesn’t seem bothered, he doesn’t ask.

The embrace lasts for a while, Lafayette hunching over and clenching his fists into George’s coat lapels, while he runs his hands all along the other man’s hips and sides. Neither one even thinks about the fact that they may be caught. It’s late enough that most if not all the soldiers are asleep, and they wouldn’t dare invite themselves into the general’s tent.

When they pull away from each other, George is looking at him expectantly (although he probably appears more dumbfounded than anything,) so Lafayette drags his teeth over his bottom lip before speaking faintly. “I want so much. Please, just touch me,” His darling boy spreads out for him even further at that. George nods, and almost chokes on his own breath.

“Of course,” he says, his arms still on either side of Lafayette’s hips, but now his fingers graze at the hem of his breeches. George carefully untucks his shirt, and leans forward to be as close as he can. Soon enough, the general’s face is pressed against his midsection, and hands are ghosting along his bare sides. Lafayette sighs, and George shifts down, at first brushing his lips across Lafayette’s lower stomach. Once he’s low enough, the new position forcing him to sit back on his ankles- he immediately begins to mouth at the front of the boy’s breeches.

George recognizes that he’s teasing Lafayette cruelly, but he can’t pull away long enough to push down the breeches (although his hands are now balled up into fists at the waistline of them,) and he’s lapping pathetically, inhaling the scent of fresh cotton every time he takes a breath. He wants to stay like this forever, wishes for his sole purpose to be soothing over Lafayette’s groin with his tongue like a dog. George is only momentarily mortified by the revelation before he shakes it off and looks up to attend to his boy. Lafayette has his eyes squeezed shut, and the hand that isn’t clutching at George’s shoulder is resting on the table beside him, but when George slows, he hesitantly opens his eyes. He presses his legs together slightly, enough to clasp George’s shoulders, and his cheeks glow with a deep flush.

He’s never wanted anyone more in his life.

“I- _merde_ , please, _j’ai besoin de toi._ I need-“ George cut him off by surging forward for another kiss with no protest from the other man, as he tugs Lafayette’s breeches down to his thighs.

“I could never say no to you,” he admits raggedly. Lafayette laughs at the man using his own words against him, but gets the breath knocked out of him when George takes him in without any forewarning. He barely manages to hold back a wail; it’s obvious that no one’s done this for him in the past, and it’s overcoming for both of them.

Lafayette doesn’t say anything for fear of letting out a shameful noise, but when he feels his cock hit the back of George’s throat, he can’t help but sob. George is holding him in place, steady warm hands clutching at his hips, and all he can do is writhe in the general’s solid grip. He doesn’t give even an inch, doesn’t let Lafayette pull back, doesn’t bob. George stays put, his nose pressed into the boy’s navel with each tickling breath. His only movement is to swallow convulsively around his mouthful, Lafayette yelping at the sensation every time he does.

George doesn’t think he’s ever taken so much risk. He should be making the boy cover his mouth, bite his knuckles, but he also doesn’t think he could deny Lafayette anything by now. And so the noises flow out, like oil fuelling the conflagration in him. He feels like he isn’t worthy of this _privilege_ , to service this dear boy, ready to become a martyr for America. George could never think of him as a soldier, that isn’t who he is, and he could never be one. The troops always respected him, despite his immaculate garments and his skin, reminding them too much of when they weren’t bathing in dirt and mottled with scars, both physical and not. But no, he’s not a soldier.

The Marquis de Lafayette is like a whisper, serene in even desperate situations; he bleeds into George’s heart like ink into parchment, and the general can do nothing but fall to his knees and profess his devotion. He can do nothing but beg for Lafayette to never stop neatly scrawling over everything he does.

(He wants his boy to know how beloved he is, but he prays that Lafayette will never discover that on those abhorrent nights when he can’t take his gloves off for the fear that his fingers may be frostbitten or bloody- can’t stand to prove that his figurative admission of guilt as valid- and when the whiskey isn’t enough to bring him sleep, he grabs one of Lafayette’s letters from his desk or his satchel, shaking. He doesn’t read it, he can’t, when he’s tired and drunk and weeping, as he usually is on these nights. George runs his quaking pointer finger over each loop, holds it to his chest, and rocks back and forth like a child until he’s finally exhausted himself. George figures that he owes many hours of sleep to Lafayette.)

And he can’t think of anyone more deserving of worship.

He realizes, after recalling where he is presently, that his eyes have closed somewhere along the way, and that he’s been still aside from swallowing for at least a minute. George opens his eyes to see Lafayette no longer looking desperate. His breath is still labored, as to be expected, but his eyelashes are fluttering and his expression is peaceful, even with his head thrown back. He gently reminds the boy of his presence by linking their fingers together and squeezing a bit. Lafayette gasps when he pulls away, slow and steady, before sinking back down with a sudden hurriedness. George repeats the motion, making sure to swipe his tongue over every expanse of skin possible and still holding the boy’s hips in place with his left hand. His right hand is still covered by Lafayette’s, and he makes no plans on moving it. He thinks he’s doing an adequate job pinning him to the desk single-handedly.

“ _S’il vous plait,_ God, _je suis amoreux de toi,_ ” Lafayette mumbles in one breath and bucks against his hand, whining loudly when he realizes there will be no give. “ _Vous êtes magnifique,_ I can’t-“

George dips back down and looks up to study his boy only to suck in a harsh breath when their eyes meet. Lafayette has a shamelessly awed, adoring look in his eyes, and he squeezes George’s hand when he sees the man looking back to him. He shudders. George is about to pull off and ask Lafayette to tell him what to do, but he decides against it. Instead he pulls him closer and tilts his hips up, forcing him to lean back. In turn, George’s mouth slides further down on Lafayette’s cock, back to where it was when he began. He hears the boy sob, then a sharp inhale, as warm liquid trickles down his throat. He is pressed to swallow, but he’s not perturbed as he’d planned to do so anyway. He shifts back after laving his tongue over Lafayette once more and looks up to see him flushed with embarrassment.

“I-I apologize,” George raises an eyebrow at him and lets his hips go, not before stroking over the tops of his thighs first. “I should, let me-“

“No,” George stands up with no small effort and pulls the ribbon out of Lafayette’s hair, letting it frame his face and fall just above his shoulders. His own posture is poor, and his footing, wobbly at best. The cotton covering his knees is dusty and perhaps permanently stained. He finds he doesn’t care as much as he probably should. George also finds that he is uncomfortably hard, but doesn’t really desire release. Tonight is for Lafayette.

“Then I should leave,” he says quietly, averting George’s gaze. Tragically, the boy starts to hop off the desk and re-lace his breeches. When he does the former, their chests are touching, as George was still standing between his legs, and Lafayette whimpers as his soft cock rubs against the other man’s clothed thigh but begins to pull up the fabric bunched around his knees quickly. George grabs his arms as gently as possible with the amount of urgency he feels.

“Stay,” George says. “If it pleases you.” he adds as if an afterthought, but a panicked one no less.

Lafayette looks up at him, with a sweet sort of confusion, like he’d never even imagined that the general would ask him to stay. He nods, and just as soon as he got back on his feet, he’s off them yet again, being tenderly carried to the cot like a blushing bride. George smiles.

“It gives me great comfort, knowing that you are safe,” he says while kneeling to unlace his boy’s boots when he finally sets him down on the bunk, and then goes to undo the rest of the buttons on Lafayette’s breeches, so he can pull them off all the way. When this is done, he pushes Lafayette’s coat and waistcoat off his shoulders and folds all the garments neatly, placing them on the corner of his desk. George removes his own clothing as well and sets that stack right next to the other.

“George,” Lafayette whispers when the general is sitting close next to him on the cot, both of them in only their undershirts and stockings.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for,” He tries to find the words, and continues when he does, voice thick with emotion. “-taking care of me, always.”

He forces the boy into laying down with a gentle hand on his chest and shakes his head before pulling the woolen sheets onto them both. “Always is right. It is an honor to cherish you, and I do not plan on ceasing any time soon.” _I am ruined,_ he thinks, _you are truly in over your head with this boy._

And just as he thinks that Lafayette is only grateful, George hears a small, unsure voice. “Does this mean you love me too?”

George curls around him, incredulous, relishing in his words and in his body heat. “Yes, yes it does,” he says, trying very hard not to weep openly into Lafayette’s shoulder and thank him profusely for his mere existence, not to tell him things he’ll regret. But he does know that he has to say one thing aloud if they are not to survive the winter at Valley Forge, a thought at which he swallows heavily. “I love you more than I dare say.”

His boy hums and squirms further into George’s chest, blinking his earnest amber eyes innocently, just like a painting, but speaking in a most lecherous tone. “Good,” he whispers with a wicked glint in his eye, and then there are nimble fingers working his cock. He would push Lafayette away, assert that this whole thing was for him, but the truth is that his own intentions are more selfish than not, and that George’s mind couldn’t work hard enough to get the words out if he wanted it to. “Next time, you’re going to bend me over your desk,” George nods and groans when Lafayette twists his wrist. “-take good care of me, like you always do. Make me take whatever you have to give me,” There’s a pause when he starts bucking his hips against Lafayette’s soft fingers. “General, _please,_ ” the boy whines as if he’s the one being stroked off, but the words make George even harder.

In fact, it only takes a few more strokes for him to release over Lafayette’s hand with a sigh of pleasure, the aforementioned man licking his fingers thoughtfully when he does so. “George?”

“Yes?”

“ _Je t’aime._ ”

George can only hope he knows what that one means. “I love you too,” he says quietly, and judging by the way Lafayette starts purring against his side, he assumes his estimation was correct.

**Author's Note:**

> copious french translations:
> 
> D’accord - Of course  
> Mon cher général - my dear general  
> Il n’y a rien à dire - There is nothing to say  
> Je ne sais pas ce que je veux que vous- - I don't know what I want you to-  
> Merde, j’ai besoin de toi - Shit, I need you  
> S’il vous plait, je suis amoreux de toi - Please, I'm in love with you  
> Vous êtes magnifique - You're magnificent  
> Je t'aime - I love you (duh)
> 
> hope u enjoyed this fluffy bullshit


End file.
